


The Half-a-Witch

by KryptidWriter



Category: The Owl House
Genre: Boscha Needs A Hug, Boscha Redemption Arc (The Owl House), Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Family Drama, Good Friend Willow Park, Hurt/Comfort, It’s not the main focus but is still there, Minor Amity Blight/Luz Noceda, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Third Person Limited, Pining, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, seriously this is going to be long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KryptidWriter/pseuds/KryptidWriter
Summary: “Who does Willow Park think she is? Walking around with her nasty curly hair, that stupid flower pin... and those...stupid glasses! Ugh!”
Relationships: Background Amity Blight/Luz Noceda - Relationship, Boscha/Willow Park
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	1. Stupid Half-a-Witch

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I really, really enjoy the Bosclow ship and wanted to write a story about them. Warning! This story contains mentions of bullying and harassment! Considered yourself warned.
> 
> Thoughts and dialogue are separated. 
> 
> Thoughts: ‘ 
> 
> Dialogue: “
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is a waking nightmare sometimes.

‘Please… PLEASE just shut up…’

It is both discourteous and highly presumptuous to voice her internal dialogue in words, but it's becoming increasingly difficult with each passing moment. Pen twirling between her fingers, she swiftly relocates it between her pointer finger and thumb, quickly scribbling something inside her notebook in fuchsia-colored ink beginning with a lopsided circle, looping the line back down in an arch that is best described as a phallic. 

Trivial and immature as it is, the slightest of smiles manages to pull at her lips. 

However, as quickly as it comes, it vanishes and is instead replaced with a frown and hearty frown. 

“The 4th Emperors Parliament?” 

The teacher nods and smiles. “Excellent. Great work today, Ms.Park.” he compliments, turning his back and running his chalk-piece across the board. 

Boscha shakes her head and, compulsively, scribbles along the lined-paper of her notebook, hand clutching the plastic pen with enough force to completely snap it into halves. 

‘Oh GOD, she’s such a kiss up…’

Every moment of her day is seemingly structured this particular way. Boscha only took journalism classes because it served as a prerequisite for Hexside’s yearbook committee class, and because it was something academic wise she was genuinely interested in joining, and because her friends told her it'd be an easy grade. What they failed to inform her, however, that four-eyes would be in the class as well, and she’d be that student who answers every question and responds when no one else will. 

It was as if their atom originated from the same cloud of stardust from the birth of the universe itself, having followed each other to this point in time to be in constant togetherness. It was idiosyncratic, almost unnatural. 

She hated every second of it. 

She runs a hand through her hair, nails scraping against her scalp and reliving the tingling sensation running down her spine. She lazily summons her scroll, but is displeased to find that it's percentage is deathly low, and she realizes she’s left her charger at her house. 

“I seriously can’t catch a break.” She mutters under her breath, fingers tapping on the scratchy surface of the wooden table. 

Of course, she could potentially just ask one of her fellow classmates if she could burrow their chargers, but that notion would involve her communicating with them. 

And she simply didn’t want to. 

As the discussion moves to that of inaccurate portrayals of information in social media, the teacher inquires how the media perpetuates yellow journalism, and a small shadow moves in the corner of Boscha eyes and she unconsciously looks towards it. Though a bit far away, Boscha can still manage catching a timid hand rising from the crowd of heads lined the elongated wooden tables. 

“Okay… Ms. Park. Go ahead.” 

“Uh, I think we see this with like, Flutube thumbnails and things like that. They’ll say something bad about someone without really knowing all the details, because they want to be the first to cover it. Like all these scandals happening currently,” she answers. 

‘I swear it's everyday with this girl, like I swear i’ll-‘

“Right again!” 

‘Wow. WOW.’ 

She leans into her chair, shoulder blades roughly falling against the rough surface as she accepts her defeat. If she had the energy and willpower, she’d sacrifice her yearbook committee class placement and return to her normal schedule. ‘She’s so annoying. Just shut up, half-a-witch!’ 

“You’re doing really good today, Willow!” The little illusionist sitting besides her says. 

“Yeah! Good work!” Another one adds.

And Boscha just frowns. 

Several agonizing minutes pass, and Boscha becomes increasingly annoyed with every answered question and every word of praise. The teacher warily looks towards the clock displayed above the entrance and sighs. “Okay, everyone, I’m going to wrap up just a few minutes early because I have to make an announcement.” 

Boscha’s eyebrows knot in disappointment. ‘This better be good.’

“Alright, so normally we write a paper for this midterm, but I think I want to try something different this go ‘round. It’s not enough to be a good writer to be a good reporter. It helps to know your way around a camera. 

This peeks Boscha’s interest, if only by a small margin. 

“...And I know a lot of you are interested in joining the yearbook committee next year.”

‘Duh! It’s why we’re all here!’ 

“...So, I’m going to be assigning you all a midterm project instead.” 

Some of the students groan in displeasure, some simply nod in approval. Half-a-witch actually turns and smiles at the idiot seated next to her, because of course she would.

Boscha just scoffs and crosses her arms. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” The teacher begins, pacing around the room. “I’m going to assign each of you a partner, and I want you both to come up with an idea for an article. You’ll need to write a summary for the article, and take a cover photo. Then you will present it to the class in a couple of weeks. And, as always, I want to see effort! I can give passing grades to passage submissions, but if you want to be considered for the committee, you’ve got to impress me. So take this seriously.” 

Boscha takes a moment to digest this information. 

‘...I guess it won’t be too bad. I mean, just take a picture, write a couple paragraphs, do a dumb presentation. Anything beats some stupid essay.’ 

A moment passes.

‘Wait, did he say partners?’ 

“Alright, here’s who you’re going to be partnered with so listen up!” The teacher starts, holding a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. 

It’s unbelievably obvious where this way going. The writing is on the wall. This cruel, twisted, sickening joke just transformed into a giant middle finger placed directly towards her flawless face. 

‘Titan, if you’re listening… PLEASE don’t let it be her.’ 

“Bo, you’ll be working with Cat.”

“Eilien, you’ll be with Amelia.”

“Skara with Chadley.” 

“Boscha…” 

She freezes. Her heart is pounding against her ribcage. It’s as if the words he’s about to pronounce spew from his lips in slow motion. 

‘There’s still hope! I could be teamed with some loner or something. Whatever! Anyone could be better than half-a-‘/p>

“...You’ll be working with Willow.” 

Her face- is like- wow. She literally can’t even. He did not just say that. This can’t be happening. 

Wearing the dumbfoundedness on her features like the newest brand of contour, she slowly allows her face to fall into her palms. 

Her worst nightmare has come true. That means they’ll have to talk and stuff! And schedule and arrange plans outside of school to do more talking and stuff! And, “Oh my Titan,” she’ll have to pretend like she’s interested and listen to her! 

‘This can’t be happening…’ 

…

…

All the other students begin filling out of the journalism room, including cringy half-a-witch and her stupid baby Illusionist friend. 

‘I can’t work with her. I WON’T work with her.’ 

She slowly stands up, stalling as she methodically grabs her belongings and sneaks glances towards the departing students. A few loners decided to stay behind to harass the teacher about their partners. Boscha rolls her eyes. ‘Of course they would.’ 

The teacher crosses his arms and unapologetically meets them with indifference. “I’m sorry, but my decision is final. The whole point of me assigning you a project is to make you step outside your comfort zone. You’ll be thanking me later.” 

Boscha’s heart sinks. One: she’ll get the same nonsense if she complains about being paired with Willow. 

And two: … he’s right. 

‘I’m Boscha Vantas! I don’t back down to anything or anyone! I can handle this stupid project! I’ll ACE it! Hell, I’ll probably end up doing all the work! What was I even worried about? I can do this!’ 

Though, something inside her makes her doubt her newfound confidence.


	2. Stupid Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No messages and a certain someone has Boscha feeing down.

Stepping outside, she is relieved to escape the exhausting academic environment and atmosphere after nearly eight hours. The congregation of people is overwhelming after school, and she watches discreetly as a steady stream of students march down the grand stairs and onto the stone-paved pathway, including half-a-witch and her annoying friends. The human is jovially babbling about something, frantically waving her hands in ridiculously grand gestures that make Boscha’s eyes and nose scrunch unconsciously. 

‘Stupid human and her stupid friends.’ 

She heads down the pathway, striding with such confidence and self respect that one could only wish to possess. Shoulders back, head high, arms swaying slightly as students practically form a barrier around her as she walks. Despite the circumstances, her lips manage to pull into a smirk. 

Her house is not far from the school and only takes several minutes of walking down the dirt pathway to be met with a sizable victorian styled home intimidatingly looming over her. Outside, the house is large, nothing too eye-catching, especially compared to the Blight Manor, but still an impressive feat in it's own right. The pathway curves alongside a flower patch and stops before two grandmaster doors. . 

Boscha announces her arrival with a shout from the entrance of her home, “Mom? Dad? I’m home,” she says, leather boots clicking lightly against the marble floor. 

No response. 

Boscha is caught between disappointment and entertainment, letting out a single, short laugh with her mouth twisted into a conflicted grimace. She couldn’t say she’s surprised; they never were, and the silence brought upon the house was nothing short of deafening. But she always checks, just in case. 

She places her backpack besides the granite support beam and ungracefully removes her leather boots, her feet aching from the rough and uncomfortable padding residing inside the shoes. She glances at the hanging grandmaster clock above, the time displaying four thirty. She doubted her parents would be home by dawn; nevertheless tonight.

She makes her way through the foyer and into the kitchen. There is a teal sticky note plastered on the counter with several snails besides it. She peels the note from the marble surface and scans the text. 

Won’t be home until late. Here’s some money for take out. 

Mom and Dad. 

With bitterness and sorrow filling her chest, she scoffs before discarding the note into a nearby waste-bin. 

…

…

…

No new messages. 

‘Seriously?’ 

She was disappointed to discover that after nearly seven hours of her scroll being drained, she barely had notifications lined vertically on her lock-screen. This can likely be best attributed to the combination of after school activities and not having communicated with them as frequently as usual, but she can’t help but feel a little disappointed in herself for shirking on her friends. She knew she was a… less than favorable person, but she wasn’t always disregarding people's feelings. 

She frowns, dissipating her scroll and sinking into the plush surface of her bed. 

She’s used to nights alone; but normally she’d have someone accompanying her either through scroll or actually interacting with them in her bedroom. Clearly, they are preoccupied, if they’re extended silence is anything to go by. 

She summons her scroll once more, finding no noticeable changes within the notification bar. She sighs, rubbing the inner corners corners of her eyes, willing her thoughts to halt their tumultuous ascent in angst better suited for some weirdo loner.

Someone like… 

‘Nope. I am NOT thinking about her! She has ruined my day as much as it is, and I won’t let her inconvenience me any further!’ 

She sits up, turning her attention towards the adjacent window inside her bedroom. Scorching rain began to drip onto the roof in a rhythmic manner, the evaporation hissing against the cool condensation covering the rooftops. She looks to her clock, and it reads half past four. 

‘Okay… I still have the whole day left! Maybe one of the girls will call, or maybe mom and dad might even come home! Okay, that probably won’t happen, but whatever.’ 

She looks at her scroll once more. Nothing has changed. 

‘Well… either way… this isn’t so bad. I can get some homework done. Maybe watch something on the crystal orb. By then, someone will call, right?’ 

With a twirl of her finger, her backpack materializes into her grasp. Once summoned, she looks inside and grabs her homework checklist. 

‘Okay, I’m all caught up with Potions 101, no physics until Mr. Fongerhorn comes back… so that just leaves…’ 

Journalism. 

She thinks back to the moment where the journalism teacher announced her partnership with half-a-witch. It was almost as if the world was taunting her. As if he purposefully paired the two teenagers together. 

Then he told those other witches about embracing changes facing challenges in the real world… 

She stops, and takes a deep breath. 

‘Maybe I’ve earned a break from homework.’ 

…

…

‘Okay, Boscha…. you seriously need to get a grip.’ 

With the lights turned off, she pulls up a film streaming service on her crystal orb, and scrolls through some of the featured films and television shows. 

There’s plenty of entertainment she doesn’t enjoy; most of the flims range from painfully mundane to horrifically terrible, reminding her of her picky entertainment tastes and exactly why she prefers to avoid the streaming service in general. Her nose scrunches in disgust upon landing on a romantic comedy from decades ago before quickly scurrying on. 

Truthfully, she struggles to remember the vast majority of films and television she consumes, despite almost religiously watching such media. Perhaps she’s too engrossed in social activities and Grudgby tournaments to fully convert cheesy romance movies and cliche sitcoms into memory. 

Boscha entertains the idea of browsing through the animated section of shows. The thought gives her a strange rush, but that intoxicating surge of confidence is replaced by childish fear- how would her parents, let alone her friends- react if they’d found out about her watching children cartoons? 

As she scrolls through, her eyes catch the thumbnail for a nature documentary about wild demons. She finds it unfathomable that people seemingly enjoy mundane observations about wild animals and the conservation of their habitats. By all means, it’s not as if she doesn’t care about endangered species, but she’d rather not have that as an option for viewing pleasure.

Species. Nature. Plants.

Plants… 

“To hell with it,” she mutters, flicking through the categories and coming across a random television show before pressing play. She isn’t quite sure as to why she had pressed this specific show. Background noise; she convinces herself. 

Deciding that she is that bored, Boscha taps open Penstagram and onto her messages. The list is long, displaying several individual message histories ranging from weeks to months. The top message histories include a group chat between Skara, herself, and several other close friends. Her last received message from Amity was several weeks ago. 

She closes the app, sullen. She sighs. 

‘Don’t get broken up over her.’


End file.
